I
had intended that this issue of the DIGITAL JOURNALIST be devoted to wars
and memories. However, as I was planning it I started thinking more in
terms of my experiences in wars, and the people I have known, some of whom
are no longer with us.

During this time I learned that the NEWSEUM,
the Freedom Forum's new exhibit hall for Journalism in Rosslyn, Va.,
was about to exhibit the works of photographers killed in Vietnam. The
show was to coincide with the release of REQUIEM, a book of the photographs,
published by Random House.

Looking at the pictures on the wall, memories
flooded over me. I knew then I had to share the experience with you.
In particular, I would like to tell you about three of the photographers
I knew very well, Henri Huet, Larry Burrows and Kent Potter.

In March, 1965, Henri Huet walked into
the brand new UPI bureau office in Saigon, where I was Bureau Chief. He
was short, dark-haired, and always had a smile on his face.

Born in Vietnam to a Vietnamese mother
and French father, Henri had been a combat photographer covering Vietnam
for the French Army and was now seeking work with an American news agency.
While looking at his negatives, I realized that he was a very good photographer.

Henri was an incredibly dedicated photographer.
On one occasion he walked into the bureau, dripping blood from a wound
he had received on an operation with the 173rd Airborne, but wanted to
drop his film off before he went to the hospital.

By early 1966, Henri went to work for Horst
Faas at AP. Henri shot what I can only call "the perfect story." It was
when American forces had their first major battle against main force North
Vietnamese units. LIFE magazine devoted the cover and twelve pages to his
photographs.

Larry Burrows was considered by the Saigon
press corps as the "pro." His photographic talents were equally well utilized
by LIFE magazine - He could shoot exquisite food layouts, or painterly
feature pieces, as well as war.

Whenever Larry, based in Hong Kong, came
to Vietnam we knew that we were about to be shown up for the photographic
clods that we were.

At one point he requested that he be allowed
to be strapped to the wing of a plane to photograph a combat mission. When
the rest of the photographers heard about this we all protested to the
Vietnamese: "why was Larry Burrows being allowed to do this kind of thing?"
The Vietnamese replied, "because he is an artist."

Kent Potter came to me when I was the UPI
picture bureau manager in Philadelphia in the early 1960s. He wanted to
be a news photographer. I worked with him for several years, helping to
shape his journalistic career.

I went to Vietnam in 1965, and several
years later Kent followed me, and became the UPI picture bureau chief.

Kent was only in his twenties, and after
a year in Saigon, he came back to New York on home leave. I was struck
by how he had matured in the past year. Vietnam had toughened him, but
there was still a whimsical side to him.

The two of us drank late into the night.
Next morning, bleary eyed and looking out over Manhattan, Kent said to
me, "you know, I came back First Class on Pan Am."

Pan Am had just started 747 service between
London and New York. Kent had, against UPI rules, upgraded to first class.
He continued, "you know, I could be killed tomorrow, and at least I will
know what it was like to ride in that First Class cabin upstairs."

Two weeks later, Kent Potter along with
Larry Burrows and Henri Huet, and Keisaburo Shimamoto, were shot down when
their helicopter strayed over Communist batteries in Laos, February, 1971.